He hammered the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. He was being pursued by ghosts, heckled by sudden self doubts, losing time, falling off schedule before he had even begun. He pulled to the curb and watched in his rearview mirror to see if the car returned. In one sense, it didn’t matter. He’d waited long enough. It was time, past time, to attack. He fingered the toggle switch for the pump.
Marty’s face drained of color. “It was him.”
“You’re certain?”
“No mistake.” Her answer came out as a rasp.
He picked up his cell phone, dropped it, retrieved it, called Dwight. “It’s him,” he said before Dwight could say anything. “Where are you?”
“Turning into the subdivision.”
“Meet us at the main intersection.” He nodded to Marty.
“Has he sprayed?” Dwight asked.
“Not yet. But I doubt he’s going to wait. I think we spooked him.” He heard Seligmann yelling at a car to get out of her way. Somewhere in the distance, far distance, the wavering wail of sirens challenged the morning stillness.
Thirty seconds later, the Lincoln pulled up to the intersection and stopped. Seligmann and Dwight got out and dashed toward Richard and Marty who stood beside the Mercedes.
“Where is he?” Seligmann yelled before even reaching them.
“Straight down Roxburgh. Right side.” Richard pointed. “About a quarter of a mile.”
“Is he alone?”
“As far as we could tell, yes.”
“Stay here.” Seligmann pivoted toward her vehicle.
“Hold it, damn it,” Richard said, grabbing at her. “You can’t go after Barashi alone.”
“Come on, Wainwright, he may be spraying already. I can’t wait for the police to get here.”
“I wasn’t talking about waiting.”
Seligmann squinted at Richard, pursed her lips, shook her head. “Enough with the Fearless Fosdick bit, okay. You’re a civilian. I may be here illegally, but at least I know what I’m doing. I can handle this. You know I’m good.”
“Get real. I don’t care if you’re James Bond in drag. You’re outgunned and overmatched. I may be a civilian, but I was a marine once, too. I know how to handle a weapon and shoot. I know combat procedures. At least it’ll be two against one. Let’s go.”
“Deliver me from hairy-chested men,” she muttered, seemingly resigning herself to Richard’s assistance. “You’re deputized, but I’ll make the approach. You, Dwight and Marty are the reserves. Stay about half-a-dozen car lengths behind me. If things go in the tank, I’ll holler for help.”
Richard hefted the SIG, wondering how effective he could really be with his left hand.
A Corvette approached, then slowed. The driver, a middle-aged bald man, examined the small group. His eyes ballooned upon spotting the handgun. He accelerated away, simultaneously tapping in a short number on his cell phone.
“Don’t shoot unless I ask for help,” Seligmann continued, ignoring the Corvette. “If you have to fire, make sure the background is clear. I don’t want you dropping any bystanders.” She stepped into her car, slammed the door. “Lord knows, we’re up to our asses in alligators already.”
Richard, Marty and Dwight raced to the Mercedes. The chorus of sirens was drawing nearer, but Richard knew they’d be too late.
A small stand of silver maples and sweet gums lay ahead. Barashi eased the pickup forward, his finger resting on the pump switch. Why all the sirens? He dismissed them as emergency vehicles responding to an early-morning wreck or fire, a not unusual occurrence in the heavily-populated suburbs. Still... He eyed the rearview mirror. Nothing. It’s okay. Relax. He sucked in a deep breath. Ready.
He hesitated, startled by the sight of a young woman, pushing—no, jogging behind—a baby stroller, coming down a driveway just ahead of him and to his right. His finger twitched, paused, resting on the switch. No need to spray them directly, he decided; no need to stir up immediate ire. Let them go. They’ll be dead soon enough. He removed his finger from the toggle, touched the brim of his baseball hat in greeting and nodded to the young mother. She smiled, waved, said something, maybe “thank you” or “nice morning,” and ran past. He watched her and her child in his side mirror as they moved away from him. Americans, he thought, so open, so casually friendly. Nevermore.
He glanced once more in his rearview mirror. “Faah,” he spat, and clenched the steering wheel, as a big car, headlights on, came up fast behind him. He reached for the toggle switch, but changed his mind and went for the Glock instead. There was only one car, and it didn’t look like any sort of official vehicle. No need to panic, to start spraying and running. Yet. Still, he wasn’t certain. Had that indeed been Wainwright he’d spotted earlier? Had his mission been compromised? Probably not. The approaching car didn’t look like anything the police or military used. But the sirens... He placed the Glock beside him, nestling it against his right thigh. The car pulled up to his rear bumper, flashed its lights. Maybe a private security patrol. Barashi stopped the truck.
Chapter Thirty-One
NORTH METRO ATLANTA
SATURDAY, AUGUST 24
Dwight pulled the Mercedes to the curb about twenty-five yards behind Seligmann. From the back seat, Marty leaned forward and spoke to Richard. “Stay in the car,” she said softly, then repeated it.
“Sorry,” he responded, only half meaning it. He got out, crouched behind the car’s door. He held his handgun down, out of sight.
“Nobody listens to my sermons, either,” Marty said.
“I can’t back up Seligmann from behind a windshield,” he snapped.
Marty ignored the rebuke. “The cops are coming. Just cool it. You’ve done enough.”
“She’s right, man,” Dwight added. “Take it easy. The Mossad chick knows what she’s doing. She said she’d let us know if she needs help.”
“She needs help,” Richard said. “She just won’t admit it.”
“Oh, yes,” Marty said testily, “mister high-and-mighty chief executive knows best. Always hands-on, always in the middle of things.”
“Yes. I know, to a fault,” Richard retorted.
“To a fault,” Marty agreed. She stared straight ahead, arms crossed in front of her, lips glued together.
Seligmann opened the Lincoln’s door, remained behind it, leveled her handgun at Barashi’s truck. “Federal officer,” she yelled. “Show me your hands, driver.” There was no response.
“Federal officer?” Dwight said.
“Well, she is,” Marty responded, “in Israel.”
“Driver, show me your hands. Now.”
“Tossing guns out, miss. Don’t shoot.”
“Don’t throw anything out. All I want to see are empty hands out the window.”
The door of the truck opened.
“Don’t open the door, damn it. Show me your hands.”
A handgun flew out the door, clattered onto the street. “Another one coming out, officer.”
“Shit. Just do what I tell you.”
Richard watched as Seligmann grew increasingly frustrated, antsy. He didn’t like the way things were going, either. He brought the SIG up into a firing position.
Across the lawn to his right, the front door of a home opened. A man in ratty blue jeans and a University of Georgia T-shirt stepped out. “Hey. What’s going on out here?” He started toward the car.
Richard held the gun up where the man could see it. “Police business,” he yelled, “get back in your house.”
The man stopped, gestured at the street. “Those don’t look like police cars to me.”
Richard didn’t need this, not now. “But does this look like a police gun?” He whirled and pointed the 9mm at the man.
The resident scurried back into his house.<
br />
“That was smart,” Marty said.
“I’ll let you handle it next time.”
Another gun from the truck clunked onto the street and skittered toward the opposite curb. A jogger came down Roxburgh from Barashi’s direction, saw the guns flying from the pickup, saw Seligmann with her weapon trained on the vehicle. He wheeled and broke into a sprint, away from the confrontation.
At least one siren had suddenly become quite loud, very near, perhaps within the subdivision. “Good guys to the rescue,” Dwight yelled from inside the Mercedes.
“Those are all my weapons,” Barashi said, “I’m coming out now.”
“Hands first,” Seligmann shouted, “and keep your back to me.”
Richard knew this was too easy. Barashi would never surrender, never abort his jihad.
“Watch out,” he yelled at Seligmann, “don’t forget he has grenades.” Diamond Cutters.
A hand appeared from the pickup’s door. “Getting out,” Barashi said.
“Let’s see the other hand,” Seligmann commanded. “Now.”
Richard heard a vehicle coming up Roxburgh behind him. No siren. Not a cop. He turned to look. An SUV. Kids in it. He darted into the street, waving his gun like a semaphore, yelling at the driver to stop.
Richard pivoted to see what was happening with Barashi, saw Barashi’s other hand extend from the door, flip a grenade underhanded toward Seligmann. Seligmann saw it, too, got off two shots, then dived for cover into the Town Car. The SUV behind Richard, horn blaring, squealed to a halt.
Barashi’s toss, a bit too vigorous, sent the grenade bouncing and tumbling beyond the Lincoln. The bomb exploded in a doomsday starburst of light and noise just past the left rear fender of the car, shredding the trunk and shattering the rear window. It did little other damage beyond defoliating a nearby magnolia and pitting the windshield of Dwight’s Mercedes.
The blast wave knocked Richard to the ground. He glanced up, saw large chunks of grass flying through the air as the SUV cut a cookie through someone’s front yard. He rolled over, looking for Seligmann and Barashi.
They stepped from their vehicles simultaneously, but Seligmann never had a chance. The ripping stutter of an assault rifle on full automatic filled the morning. Seligmann crumpled back against the door frame of the Town Car, then toppled forward into the street.
Dwight—either out of instinctive concern over seeing a female shot, or in a fit of anger at having his automobile damaged—sprang from his car and darted in a crouch toward Seligmann. He made it only a few steps before another burst from Barashi’s assault rifle caught him, spinning him off his feet and onto the pavement.
Richard raised himself into a firing position, kneeling on one knee. Marty screamed at him to take cover. An unmarked police cruiser, blue lights flashing from behind its grill, approached Barashi’s truck from in front. Barashi spotted it, dived back into the cab of the pickup.
The police car stopped, siren at full cry. Lieutenant Jackson sprang from the vehicle, shotgun at the ready. He scanned the bodies, Seligmann’s and Dwight’s, sprawled on Roxburgh’s asphalt. Seligmann, quiet, not moving, a handgun next to her. Dwight, quiet, too, a crimson puddle expanding around him like a small pool of sorrow; no weapon near him, only a pair of orphaned sandals.
“The guy in the truck,” Richard screamed, “the guy in the truck has an assault rifle. Take cover.”
Jackson hesitated, uncertainty registering in his eyes. He glared at Richard whose gun was aimed in the general direction of Seligmann. “Drop your weapon,” he yelled, bringing the shotgun to bear on Richard.
“No, no, the truck, in the truck!”
Jackson kept his weapon pointed at Richard, glanced at the truck. Barashi came out in a rush, caught Jackson with a shattering burst of gunfire before the detective could react. The stunned policeman went down like a straw man in a gale. Several rounds ripped into the police cruiser. The siren sputtered to a whimper, then stopped. Barashi spun, ran toward Richard, yelling. “You,” he screamed, “you’re dead. You’re dead.”
Richard sighted, squeezed the trigger, squeezed again, and again, and again. Barashi returned fire, emptying the remainder of the assault rifle’s clip at Richard in a short, thunderous fusillade.
The leg on which Richard knelt, collapsed. Talons of pain ripped into his thigh as he tilted, then fell heavily onto his right side. Small geysers of blood erupted from the upper part of his leg. Light-headed, disoriented, he didn’t understand what had happened. He forced himself to concentrate. No more shooting. Why?
Through a pall of calico smoke, he looked for Barashi. He lay in the street, too, stunned, bleeding from the head and neck, glaring in Richard’s direction with unfocused eyes.
Richard stared back, knowing he was face to face with pure evil. There was nothing relative about it. It was total, absolute. And it probably had killed him. Bright red blood streamed down his thigh. He realized now he’d been hit in his femoral artery. He was bleeding to death.
He looked again at Barashi, and Barashi looked back, a trace of a smile slashed across his face. Two men staring. Two men dying. Barashi twitched, rolled to his stomach, forced himself to his hands and knees and crawled toward the truck. He moved only a few feet before he collapsed.
“Richard.” Dwight raised his head off the pavement, blood draining from his cheek. Glassy-eyed, he looked in Richard’s direction. “Don’t let... don’t let that SOB... release that stuff.” His words came in short gasps. He started to say something else, but couldn’t get the words out.
“Take it easy, Dwight. You’ll be okay.” He wouldn’t be. Too much blood.
Richard recoiled as he sensed a presence next to him. Marty knelt beside him. Her hands trembled. “It’s an artery,” she said. “Put pressure on it.” She handed him a rag. “Press hard, don’t stop. Both hands.”
“Barashi’s still alive,” Richard mumbled. Images and sounds around him blurred, whirled faster and faster like a skater tucking her arms in as she spins. A tornado snatched at him and twisted him upward toward the azure void of the dawning day.
“Press,” Marty screamed in his ear. “Press.”
He pressed. The twister released him, dropped him back to earth. He teetered upright, jammed the rag over the arterial hole with both hands. As long as he didn’t have to elevate his right arm, he could do it.
Through a haze of smoke and dizziness, he searched for Barashi. There! Crawling again, leaving a trail of blood; a wounded, humanoid slug. Richard knew Barashi had only one goal in mind now: to release the Ebola. Where was the other police cruiser? It seemed as if minutes had elapsed, but it probably had been only seconds. A siren, loud, maybe even within the subdivision, cut through the morning air. But it wasn’t close enough. Barashi would reach the truck.
Richard turned toward Marty. “Marty,” he said.
“I know.” She looked around helplessly.
He inclined his head toward the SIG-Sauer. “There’s a few rounds left.”
“No. Don’t make me do this.”
Barashi collapsed again, but he was only a few yards from his truck. He stared blankly in the direction of Richard and Marty, then slithered forward again.
“Get the gun,” Richard said. “He’s going for the pump switch, Marty. The Ebola.”
“I can’t.”
Richard didn’t agonize over it, didn’t blame Marty, didn’t weigh the pros and cons, the personal consequences. He merely released the pressure from his artery and scrambled toward the gun. Blood squirted from his thigh, his life spewing from him like a broken water main. The street and gun rippled and folded in his vision. The weapon faded from view and he flailed wildly for it.
“Don’t,” Marty said, picking up the gun. “Put the pressure back on your artery.” She walked toward Barashi, gun in her right hand.
&nbs
p; “You have to shoot him, Marty,” Richard said. “Kill him.”
She approached Barashi, pointed the gun at him. “Stop,” she said.
“Shoot him,” Richard yelled.
Barashi fell to his chest, turned to look at Marty, blood draining from a hole in his cheek and a crease in his head. He stared intently at her, then smiled in recognition. He shook his head. “You won’t shoot,” he said. The words came out choked, burbling, suffused in blood. At least one of Richard’s bullets had found Barashi’s lungs.
“You’re sure?” she said.
“I know you, you’re the church lady.” Despite drowning in his own blood, he resumed crawling, continued talking. “I’ve read your Bible. It’s a sin to kill. A commandment not to.”
“Shoot him,” Richard roared.
Marty moved forward, stepped on Barashi’s hand. “Stop,” she said.
He attempted a derisive laugh, but gagged instead, coating Marty’s shoes in a sputum of blood and phlegm.
“Shoot him.”
Barashi looked up at her. “Thou shalt not,” he said. In a stunningly swift motion he launched himself violently upward, into the truck, knocking Marty aside, slathering her in his blood.
Barashi’s fingers fumbled for the toggle switch, found it, lifted it up. The pump’s motor purred to life. He waited for the deadly hiss of the spray, waited for the airborne plague to jet from the nozzles. But beyond the buzz of the pump, there was nothing. Dazed, confused, puzzled, he snapped the toggle down, into the “off” position.
He knew he was dying, struggling for every breath in his last few moments, but he forced himself to concentrate, to reason. He knew with great certainty Allah would not desert him, not abandon him on the threshold of victory, so it had to be human failure, had to be—I didn’t prime the pump! A half-second more, and the Ebola would reach the nozzles. Barashi’s left hand, coated in blood, had slipped off the toggle, but with a fresh surge of resolve he once more reached toward it.
Plague Page 27
